


Trade

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Double Penetration, Ficlet, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Apparently, Pippin left the hot frying pan for the hotter fire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Multiple penetration” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s woken in the middle of the night by a nudge against his back, enough to send a trained warrior fully awake in a heartbeat. He rolls onto his other side, reaching for the sword he keeps at his hip, only to realize through the strained moonlight that the only thing wrong in camp is Pippin in his bedroll.

With a steadying sigh of relief, Boromir rakes one hand back through his long hair, grown as bedraggled as Aragorn’s—it’s been a long, hard journey. But not, he’d thought, hard enough to send the fellowship scrambling into one another’s beds. Pippin looks blissfully fast asleep, curled up beneath Boromir’s blanket, plastered to Boromir’s side and snoring softly. His honey-coloured curls catch what little light there is, straining down through the thick foliage above. The trees were meant to hide them, but they also separate the group from one another, and there’s no way Pippin could’ve rolled here. He must’ve come deliberately, for some reason Boromir couldn’t guess, and whatever it was, he must’ve found his peace. Boromir’s startled waking doesn’t seem to have jarred him in the slightest.

Boromir still takes another minute for himself, letting his breathing even out again and his heart resume its normal beat. The forest is otherwise quiet, save for Gimli’s heavy breathing and the scurrying about of animals, the coo of an owl, and, when he strains his ears, some rustling north of the camp. This could be suspicious, until he remembers where the hobbits clustered themselves. Surely Aragorn, whose turn it is for watch, would’ve noticed anything awry. It’s more likely that Merry’s thrashing loudly about, trying to find Pippin amidst the underbrush. 

Now that he’s too awake to try slipping off again, Boromir opts to right the balance. He peels his blanket away and slips his arms beneath Pippin’s back and knees—it’s all too easy to scoop the halfling into his arms. Pippin is almost fretfully light, small and vulnerable, and he nuzzles happily into Boromir’s chest with a dream-slicked smile still across his attractive features. Boromir rises to his feet with his new burden in tow, and picks carefully through the trees past his other sleeping comrades, over to where the hobbits found a clearing of trees wide enough for all four to lie. He doesn’t _quite_ make it into that clearing.

He stops, spotting it between the v of two slanted trunks, and _stares_ at the sight before him, wondering how he ever managed to mistake the lewd sounds in the air for the twittering of animals. 

Merry and Sam are sitting up in the middle of the bedrolls, naked from the hair on their heads to the hair on their feet, and Frodo’s sandwiched between them, dressed only in a thin sheen of sweat while the three of them writhe together. Frodo faces Merry, his head buried in the crook of Merry’s shoulder, but his dark curls are unmistakable, his tiny body shivering as the two fatter ones grind against it—both Merry and Sam seem to be determined to crush the life out of him. Sam has his thick arms completely wrapped around Frodo’s middle, while Merry pets through Frodo’s hair and reaches around for Sam’s meaty hip. The two of them are both bucking into Frodo, hips jerking back and forth, and Boromir can’t really _see_ what’s happening, but he can guess enough from the needy cries that Frodo stifles in Merry’s flesh, and the groans Sam tries to bury against the back of Frodo’s neck, Merry gritting his teeth. The slapping sound of skin-on-skin is now unmistakable. All three are flushed pink in places, creamy skin glistening in the starlight, beaded and slick as they move together. It doesn’t seem possible that _Frodo Baggins_ , the smallest man Boromir’s ever seen, could take two of them at once, but it couldn’t be anything else. His thighs are spread wide around their overlapping legs. He looks consumed with sensation.

He looks bizarrely _beautiful_. It’s a conclusion Boromir would never admit to anyone. But these halflings have wormed their way into his heart more than he could have ever guessed, and Frodo is, perhaps, the prettiest of them. He tosses his head back suddenly, mouth opening in a silent cry, throat sounding hoarse and lips rosy-pink. Merry’s fingers dig into his hips, Sam squeezing him all the tighter and completely cocooning him. Both Merry and Sam move mercilessly, thrusting forward in large, quick stabs that make Frodo bounce between them. It seems all he can do to hold on. Then Merry grabs Frodo’s chin and pulls him in for a fierce kiss, only for Sam to grab his hair and pull him away. He awkwardly tries to meet Sam’s tongue over his shoulder, and Merry bites at his jaw while he does it, the two of them all over him. Boromir can’t believe Pippin chose to leave this. If Frodo can take two cocks, even small little hobbit ones, surely they could make use of his gorgeous mouth and feed him three—

A sudden yawn drags him out of the reverie—he realizes with a start that Pippin’s woken up, and is now clutching tightly to his neck, leaning purposely against him. Pulling himself higher to whisper against Boromir’s cheek, Pippin purrs, “Hobbit holes can stretch really wide, you know. I bet I could even fit a _Man’s_ cock.” He has the audacity to wink afterwards, while Boromir pales, hyper aware of just how hard this twist of events has made him. 

In the clearing, Frodo lets out a sudden cry, only for Merry’s hand to clamp over his mouth a split second later. Boromir looks back to watch him tense, likely spilling between them, though Merry and Sam are still going, Sam practically whimpering in Frodo’s ear. Frodo looks utterly _ruined_.

Pippin could probably look that good in the middle of an orgasm. Pippin’s clearly offering. Even though he’s obviously awake, Boromir doesn’t put him down.

Boromir, blushing like a fire, carries Pippin back to his bedroll to see just how wide that stretch really goes.


End file.
